I settled into read a book on my balcony, Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, around midday. Quite civilised, I thought. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, - my favourite topic, the stupidity of people who believe in god - it was just beautiful sitting there. Even a gentle breeze blew.
As I sat back on my chair, I could feel my stomach, not something I'm used to feeling, you know, kinda full. Since I've quit smoking - how long is it now, I think this is my fifth week - I've felt myself putting on weight. I mean, I'm not really sure what putting on weight feels like, exactly, but, I presume, that if I can feel my stomach, when I don't usually, that must be a fair indicator that I'm starting to expand.
Oh, I so wanted to sit back and put my feet up and get lost in my book. Enjoy the day, be lazy and gay. Ha, ha! But, my, I will say nagging, still small voice wouldn't quit.
You'll be sorry if you don't.
You'll regret this decision.
Prevention is better than cure.
Your metabolism is going to slow down with quitting the fags, you know exercise is the way to speed it up again.
Do you want to turn into a fat bastard!
Do you want to look in the mirror and have the only word that comes to mind being, hideous! (As David would say)
Ah, will you just shut the fuck up! I'm comfy, I thought. I adjusted my seat and turned the page.
Um, actually, no, I won't, said Conscience, not until you get off your fat arse and get on ya bike, soon to be a fat boy.
I can afford an hour, I thought, begrudgingly, with my still small voice shaking it's head and tutting, as it tapped its finger on the inside of my skull. Okay! Okay! I could be back here by 2pm. Easy, peasy.
Does anyone actually enjoy exercise? We enjoy the results, fitter, faster, leaner, more attractive, but does anyone actually enjoy the doing? Or is being obsessed with it the best we can hope for? I know I've been obsessed with it in the past and that obsession is a great motivator. I need to get obsessed with it again, because looking for the enjoyment in it just doesn't work.
So, I dragged my sorry arse out into the um, er, exquisite day. Yes, I know, hard as it sounds. Yes, I could hear the fucking violins too. Along the river, with the water sparkling. Around the bike path, with the spunks a jogging. Under the dappled light cast by the Elms. Through Studley Park, with the birds a twittering. I know, but someone has to do it. I know, I could be in Somalia. And back up through the delightful Victorian architecture of the inner suburbs to home.
Now, my rather long winded point is that when I was standing back on my front veranda fishing for my key in my bum bag, where usually I'd be heaving for breath, that last hill up to my front door would make sure of that, where my legs would normally feel like jelly, I actually wasn't gasping for breath and my legs didn't feel as though they were going to go out from under me.
I have to conclude, even after only five weeks of not smoking, I'm feeling considerably fitter after exercise than I ever have. Who'd have thought?
And today's the day to quit my bottle of wine with dinner habit. Enough is enough, I say to myself. I don't want to be shitting my liver out my arse in pieces anytime soon, hey?
3 comments:
I once saw Richard Dawkins give a public lecture. He refused to answer any questions from the audience (which was a little disappointing). But the most bizarre thing about the lecture was the venue...in a building bordering the senate square in Helsinki. The moment Dawkins had finished his speech, the audience made their way out onto the square, and into full view of the huge cathedral outside.
It doesn't sound like you enjoyed his lecture.
The lecture was fine. He is a great communicator but I don't think much of him as a person. He is quite arrogant.
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